Meant to bleed
by poisonrain
Summary: they knew theyd never be together, because from the beginning, it was them against the world. What they didnt know is that the world has some secrets of its own. NLPP, HGDM, RWMB, BZSB, GGLL, HAHP. Stories as quirky as the room that brought them together.
1. Chapter 1

**There are some in this world that were just meant to bleed **

_remember  
whatever  
it seems like forever  
ago_

His voice was soft, but clear.

"No."

Her face struggled to keep disgust from covering it as she continued making long, shallow, cuts along his arm.

"You're an idiot." She hissed back.

"Am I?" he asked mildly, maintaining a passive expression towards her answer, which was a particularly deep incision.

He remembered a muggle psychology text that he had happened upon by chance, and wondered if Pansy might be taking out all that 'bottled up emotion' on him. This was _not _a comforting thought to Neville, who knew from his grandmother exactly how and to what degree of emotional women could get.

His right arm was beginning to throb slightly now. He was well aware the dripping sound that echoed in the cold, dimly lit, dungeon was his own blood, but the thought of that did not repulse him, as it usually would have.

That was simply because he wasn't concentrating on it as much as he should have. Instead, he was concentrating on the pale, dark-haired girl standing in front of him.

He watched her complexion turn closer to the shade of her Slytherin badge as her hands continued to be soaked in a color much nearer to his Gryffindor one.

He watched her pale lips move as she muttered to herself, picking out snippets of sentences which sounded suspiciously like, "fucking _twisted_ Gryffindor" and "bloody idiot."

Even in the severity of the situation, he felt a small smile twist its way on his face. That girl had a way with words.

His reaction was not what the Pansy had been looking for apparently, because suddenly, she slammed the blood covered silver and jade hilted blade down on the rusty wooden table next to them.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she spat at him.

If he hadn't known her, he could have sworn she had tears in her eyes. But that was probably just the moonlight. (Pansy didn't cry)

"All you had to do was answer the bloody _stupid_ question and you would've gotten off with a black eye at worst. Oh, okay fine. A bruised ego, maybe." She was ranting now.

He wondered why she was still trying to convince him to change his mind. He proceeded to stare blankly ahead like he had the past ten or so times she had asked him, and hoped she'd turn back to her delightful task of mutilating him, like before. But no, it looked like she was going to pursue this one.

"It wasn't even that big of a deal! They meant for it to throw you off, expecting you to start _stuttering_ or something. But no, you have to look at them straight in the eye- condescendingly, mind you-" she yelled, poking him in his rope bound chest, "-and refuse to answer the question. You have been in enough situations to know that you do NOT leave a Slytherin unanswered with only a condescending look- hell _any_ kind of look- to grace them with!" she shrieked. "_Especially _Nott and Zabini! So now we're stuck in this godforsaken excuse of a room until you say something or else _bleed_ to bloody death or die of poisoning by morning!"

She was breathing hard now, and two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Clearly, she was not accustomed to doing this, preferring to be the one _behind_ the intricate plot of evil instead of actively carrying it out. (Pansy refused to be degraded to do such filth. Nott apparently found a way to persuade her. Keeping her life, maybe...)

The late hour didn't work wonders for her mood either, he could tell by the way her eyes had slipped into a glazed glance during classes that she hadn't been getting sleep lately.

"Just say something." She demanded, holding his face towards her so he could not look away. Still, he was silent

"Oh, make it up if you want to, I don't _care._" she added vehemently, throwing her hands in the air.

"Unless you _want_ to bleed to death?" She looked at him quizzically, and his lips quirked at this.

"I can't tell you." He said, for what seemed to be about the hundredth time this night.

She shook her head before her palm made solid contact with his face.

The slap echoed around the dungeon as she lowered her face to his.

"They are _not _going to stop hurting you, _ever._ And now, you've given them a reason to. Do you think they _care_ that this is some silly little crush they're risking Azkaban for? Give them a reason, Longbottom, Give them _one fucking_ reason, and they _will_ kill you. Merlin, you are so aggravating! Listen to me. _Listen to me_," she hissed as his eyes started clouding over again. "Just say it's that Mudbl- Granger or someone," She asked, in an _almost _pleading tone (Pansy didn't plead) offering the tip of her wand to his mouth like a microphone. "Say it's her and I will personally go and explain to her tomorrow what happened, if that's what's worrying you. After force bonding her to make sure our little secret doesn't go anywhere, of course." She added as an afterthought.

Neville just looked, for the first time in a few years, properly _looked_, at this girl in front of him, trying to remember the eight year olds they had been, sprawled in the puddle, covered with mud, and laughing.

He remembered telling her that her eyes seemed like a stormy ocean to him. She had responded by solemnly telling him that his eyes looked like dirt, and responded with smearing said dirt across his face.

He remembered his surprise on his ninth birthday when she had gotten him a book on gardening, with a note from her, signed to _'Dirt face'_, her endearing new nickname for him.

He remembered _her_ surprise when he in return had sent her a flowering Spanish bluebell, which happened to be the exact shade of her violet-blue eyes. Coincidence? She thought not…

Alas, that day was the last any "surprises" had good news for him. He had been so _stupid,_ so _naive_ to think that nothing would change after they turned eleven.

Of course, she had caught on first, she always did. Their childhood skirmishes had proven that.

The only contact they ever had after their first year was when they would get ready to leave school during the summer, and he'd hand her a vial.

_'Curatio Elixer'_ it was called. He gave her a larger and larger stock every year, and it pained him to see that at the beginning of the next year when she would return the vial to him, it would be empty, as always.

Aside from those yearly rendezvous, they never met. And when they did, they met as strangers. Acted like strangers, and even worked together, when required, like strangers.

But years of threat of torture, pain, and even things involving sharp things and body parts he'd rather not discuss, she still had not achieved what she wanted. Not that he could ever let her find out.

She _wanted _him to hate her, and he _knew _that.  
She _wanted_ him to turn against her, and he _knew_ that.  
But in spite of this, or more likely, because of it- he had fallen in love.  
And it positively _killed_ him because he could not tell her that.  
Why? Because she didn't _want_ him to.

Now, looking into her eyes, he couldn't see the sea. He could see the storm, oh yes. But the sea had been eliminated.

He saw slight bruises on her neck, where her sweat had dissolved her heavy layers of foundation. He grimaced slightly, thinking of what her summer must have been like if the bruises _still _showed halfway through the year, and _after_ he had giver her the _Curatio Elixer._

He saw her pale, thin hand, still gripping the rickety table, and forbade his mind to even _think_ about the scars that rested there.

When he spoke, he rather thought his voice sounded like a crackly radio station Dean had tried to get to work back in third year.

"I don't think you understand, " he began.

Her eyes flashed.

"You're bloody right if you think I don't understand, and you'd _better_ explain yourself! All I'm _bloody_ asking you to do is just say a _bloody_ name, so we can both get the hell out of here and go to bed!" she snarled. "Which brings me back to what an idiot you are, Longbottom. Just _say a damn name_. You're making a big deal out of nothing."

Neville held down the eyebrow that was itching to jump up to his hairline. He wasn't even going to _begin_ commenting on the hypocrisy.

"Pansy,' he began again, "This _is_ worth my life."

"Oh, _Merlin!"_ she groaned. "Don't go all Gryffindor-heroic-like on me over some silly little crush, okay?"

A heavy sigh escaped him.

He glanced once more at the dagger resting on the table, and the vial filled with a yellow colored antidote sitting next to it. The poison the edge had been swished around it was now in his bloodstream. He could feel the effects starting to wear down his muscles, his eyes had closed and his shoulders sagged.

Beside him, he could hear Pansy continually demand him to give her an answer _right now._

Finally surrendering, he nodded his head curtly and not a moment later, felt a cool liquid cascading down his throat.

**xxxxxx **

It was two in the morning, and they were just sitting there, at either end of the table. The ropes that had bound him before now lay at a heap near his feet, his right hand was covered in a bandage, and she just started down at her hands.

Suddenly her wand emitted a purple spark. Wasting no time, she sprang from her seat and walked over to him, holding her wand out in front of her.

"Well?" she asked in a clipped tone. "The time it takes for that antidote to work is up. Hurry along and confess so we can leave this dunghill."

Neville leaned forward on his with arm on the desk. "What I say will probably land either or both of us dead. After being tortured and spit on first."

Pansy, not understanding what he meant, rolled her eyes at this and muttered something incoherent about Gryffindors and their pride. Neville, however, bowled on as if he didn't hear her.

"So if you want to risk that, go ahead. I'll tell you who she is. But don't expect me to cover up from then on."

Her brows furrowed, trying to figure out what he meant. It wasn't everyday _Longbottom_ could waltz in and make you feel uncomfortable with his tone and choice of words. After you had ruthlessly tore open his arm. And was he giving her the evil eye? She was about to ponder the possibilities of his insanity when said lunatic interrupted her.

"Go on." He told her, eyes practically emitting a blaze. "It's your choice."

"Wha-_My_ choice? It's _your_ life, Longbottom!" Pansy stuttered, trying to cover up her amazement. She doubted if he had ever been mad before. And the sight of it actually instilled…fear…in her. "I doubt they actually _care_ who you like." She sneered, trying to regain her proverbial footing. "You're just too easy to pick on. And tie up. And…mutilate." She said the last with a wince.

"Is that a yes?" he asked her.

"Gods, Longbottom, just _say_ it, you prick! I have no clue what the hell you're talking about. So hurry up and say the blasted name!"

The cocky bastard just _sat_ there. And he had just caused her to call _Longbottom_, of all people, a cocky bastard.

Pansy quickly checked outside the window for the signs of a coming apocalypse, and sat back down in her chair when she was satisfied nothing was going to blow up.

Besides her temper of course.

Did he even _remember,_ dammit? Did the prick just find it that easy to drop her and move on? That thought hurt more than it should of. She had pushed away from his friendship for both their safety's sake. And he had repaid her by forcing her to pierce his skin until it bled so much she couldn't tell his bloody arm from her memory of her _own_ bloody arms.

But he had taken it. Without as much as a sniffle. She had clearly underestimated the boy.

Just like when he had given her _Curatio Elixer_

It was a ridiculously complicated potion, and it included having to grow your own ingredients. So suffice it to say she was a little surprised when he gave it to her. She still wondered why he gave it to her and how he knew she needed it. Pansy took the utmost care in placing concealment charms and using muggle make-up (okay, so they _did_ have some credible things in their otherwise pathetic lifestyle).

Not that she didn't _want_ the elixir. Merlin knew she needed it.

Suddenly, it hit her why the little sucker was sitting there. This wasn't Neville Longbottom from first year! This was Longbottom after many, ruthless years of vindictive teasing and…

He _enjoyed_ seeing her in pain. It's not as if she hadn't tried to make his very existence horrible from the moment he set foot here, but it was just so… _Slytherin_ of him. (Not that he hadn't learned from the best in his early years, mind you.)

While the analytical side of Pansy had been picking this apart and examining it, the more primal and carnivorous side of her had been building a seething anger. How dare he sit there and pretend he had done nothing wrong. How dare he sit there and speak in cryptic tongues, leaving her confused. And how dare he make her forget the line that would permanently exist between the two of them until kingdom come. _Why I ought to strangle, and then castrate…'_ the analytical side of her thought, but her primitive side beat her to it.

"Don't just sit there- It's _your life…_For the love of Merlin, _do_ something!" she shrieked at him, flinging the blood-ridden dagger right past his ear and into the chalkboard. The knife vibrated on the spot making an odd twanging sound.

"_Do something."_ She repeated.

So he did.

And it was a good twenty minutes later, when they both sat gasping for air, he reeling from his own outburst and she feeling blissfully and wonderfully light headed and practically sitting on his lap, that she realized what was going on.

Is this what he had meant? Did he mean that he wasn't going to hide his…feelings for her? Is that what he meant about the torturing and spitting? Dear Merlin.

Then with every ounce of Slytherin life-preservation skill that came crashing back to her, she stood up…

and she fled.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco proposed to her that day.

It was in early May, nearly the end of seventh year when he had knelt down in the Slytherin common room and asked her to marry him.

Naturally, she had squealed in excitement, threw her arms around him, and said yes.

They had walked to breakfast in the Great Hall, smiling hand in hand, and were surrounded by well wishers immediately.

Four other proposals had been made at Hogwarts already, and people were used to them by now.

But the day seemed to drag on unnaturally slowly for her as she trudged through morning lessons and ate lunch. When Pansy finally came to dinner, her nerves had been worn down to a state of almost mush.

She had not been able to concentrate properly on her lessons at all and was extremely agitated, as she could not even pinpoint the exact _reason_ for her distraction.

The more lenient professors had passed it off as the nervousness of a new bride, but nervousness was mild to what she was feeling.

Things she had never even bothered to think about were suddenly crashing in around her. Had she wasted her childhood? What was married life going to be like? Was this how her daughter would feel come her wedding day? Did she even _want_ to get married?

The last question was pushed out of her mind almost as quickly as it came.

Her duty was to ensure a good match, and Draco was as good as they came, she supposed. Her future was assured now, and a life of luxury spread before her.

She would miss the school though, that she knew. This was her home. She had enjoyed her time here immensely, not that anyone else, especially the teachers, knew it. She'd miss the days of scheming with her friends, the nights of sneaking out, and the thrill of getting caught. Merlin, she'd probably miss complaining about studying too.

Pansy rolled her eyes. Only a few hours after being proposed to and she was already getting sentimental. She was an only child, so the friends she had made here were like her family. She would miss seeing them too.

But most of all, she'd miss the odd little room she had found on the seventh floor, which had, over time, become her haven.

----

Pansy had stumbled upon it quite accidentally. She had been wandering the halls, thinking about the discussion she had heard in her common room. Purebloods were becoming rarer and rarer, and in turn, finding a good match wasn't getting any easier.

Society was built on good acquaintances and alliances, and without any, you were ensured of being shunned from the highest of circles.

Now, however, there was another outlet. By giving your services to the Dark Lord, you ensured a position in the elite, no matter if you were a lowly servant or the Lord's second in command.

Obviously, this idea was very appealing to people. While musing if that choice was better than marriage, she had noticed a narrow doorway, and decided to peek in.

When she stepped inside, her break was taken away. It was a fairly small room, walls colored a deep purple, with a vast number of lighted candles in it. There was a low, round oak table set off in to corner, with a platter of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on top of it. Plushy bean bags chairs of different colors were set around the room, and a small book was found on the windowsill behind the table.

Pansy had opened it up to find that the book was actually some kind of diary. Flipping through it, she found that 10 or so 'people' that had been writing entries it. The diary was sectioned off equally for each person that had written in it, and Pansy did not return to the common room that night, instead devouring the tales written on the little book.

These tales were those of heartbreak, and anguish, and of duty too. Concepts that Pansy was all too familiar with. As time went on, new entries were made in the diary regularly, and she felt a kind closeness with these people that she had rarely felt with anyone before. After all, her even her most loyal friendships were guarded. She knew it was silly, being so attached to these characters in ink and parchment. After all, she wasn't even sure if they existed or not.

Yet, after the incident earlier in the year with Neville, she had run straight to this room, grabbed a self-inking quill that had been on the table where it had not been before, and poured out her heart. A new section had appeared in the back of the book, and Pansy had filled it without a thought of why this new section had appeared. After all, this was Hogwarts, and many a stranger thing had happened.

She had written into the early dawn, and felt much better. Any time she felt as though she needed someone to talk to, the diary was always there. The room was her sanctuary, and even though she felt sad leaving it, the tales of the others had taught her one thing. Move on, and do so with grace.

----

Pansy's appetite returning a little more, she dug in to the mashed potatoes on her plate, trying her very hardest not to think about a certain brown haired boy sitting three tables away from her.

Maybe she'd sneak up there on the last day and take the diary with her. Yes, that's what she'd do. Her mind made up, she gulped down her pumpkin juice with renewed fervor.

If she had bothered to turn to her left where her husband-to-be was sitting, she would have noticed that he seemed no more at peace than her.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting at the table and glaring at the food was not helping his mood at all.

He had tried assigning detentions, tormenting at first-years, and even shut four of them in the broom closet just because he felt like it.

These things, which would have usually put a spring in his step, and an edge to his remarkably witty comebacks (well there was no use denying it, he _was_ incredibly intelligent) seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever except put him in a possibly worse mood.

He stormed down the hallways to lessons, and even the teachers tried to stay out of his way.

Sitting at the back of every class, he'd survey his classmates sulkily, wishing them a painful death.

Last night, he had gotten a letter from Lucius. _Here's the ring, Draco'_ it had said, _'Make sure to propose to Parkinson by the end of this week.'_

He had done it the very next morning. How's that for enthusiasm?

In truth, it was not as it seemed. He had not proposed because he was eager, as everyone thought. No, he had proposed as soon as he could because he _couldn't take it anymore!_

Not that Pansy was a bad sort to marry or anything. She came from one of the best pureblood families, they'd known each other for a long time- almost friends, and she knew exactly what was required of her. It was an extremely beneficial marriage that would bind two of London's most powerful wizarding families together.

No, she wasn't the problem. _The problem_ consisted of fuzzy hair, brown eyes, and an extremely annoying person by the name of Hermione Granger.

Oh how he wished he was in third year again, seething mad after she had slapped him. How he wished that he could look in those eyes and see mud, look at her and see filth. How he wished that day in the library had never happened.

Now he saw chocolate in those eyes. He'd seen her bleed, and her blood was as red as his. He had nothing to go on now, nothing to hate her by. And now, he was avoiding the library, and had to ask to borrow books so he could finish homework assignments. That pissed him off to no end.

It was winter vacation and practically no one was around for the holidays. Everyone had gone off to visit some relative or the other, even the Weasel. Besides a couple of Ravenclaw first years, the only other people at the school besides him were Potter and Granger.

Or, as he liked to think of them, The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-a-Pain-In-The-Arse and the Mudblood.

Dumbledore must have had a grudge against him or something, because he left only one table in the Great Hall, where the teacher _and_ the students sat together. The table wasn't even as long as usual, so even though Draco sat as far away as he could from the two Gryffindors, it still wasn't far enough.

Usually at this time of the year, Draco would be off in France, enjoying a luxurious and well- earned break. But no, his father had to insist he stay at Hogwarts while he and Narcissa went off gallivanting to Scotland, apparently settling investment matters.

**xxxxxx **

The memory of this unjustness brought a growl from Draco even today, earning him several weird looks from the Slytherins sitting around him. Shooting them a glare, he went back to his rudely interrupted memory.

**xxxxxx **

Of course, Potty had stayed there every single holiday, because his family didn't want him. Draco sneered. He couldn't blame them. Granger was usually gone though, and the Weasel would be in her place. That fellow was just too easy to rile up.

For lack of nothing to do, Draco had wandered around until his feet brought him to the library.

His lips curled in delight as he saw Granger sitting one of the tables, her bushy hair obscuring her face. Without any of her lackeys to jump to her defense, he'd be able to torment her as much as he wanted. He hadn't had the opportunity to properly bully her since third year, and he looked forward to doing so now.

Sauntering over to the table, he dropped down onto the seat opposite her loudly. Startled, she looked up.

"Mudblood." He drawled, by way of greeting.

"Pureblood." She replied, her condescending tone matching his exactly, before returning to the book she was reading.

For a moment, he was taken aback. How dare she talk to him like that?

"Did mummy and daddy finally realize what a freak you are and left you here for the holidays?" he taunted.

Her eyes were expressionless as she looked up at him.

"Did yours?"

What was up with this? He just had to say 'weasel' for the other two to get infuriated, and here she was acting like she didn't care what he was saying.

"_My_ parents had important business to attend to, mudblood. Unlike those sniveling sods of filth _you _call parents," He sneered

"Ah, yes. So they're away on _Important Business._" She replied sarcastically, flipping the page. "But don't you have that big, enormous manor of yours? Aw, can poor little Drakie not stay home alone? Is he scared of the big, bad mansion at night?"

Draco scowled. "A tenth of my house would seem like a mansion compared to what you, Potty, and Weasel King stay at put together. And at least my family knows what 'important business' is, and it's _not_ knitting things that look like wooly bladders." He smirked.

"They're hats." She responded testily, snapping the book shut, and moving onto another volume. He grinned, seeing that he had finally struck a nerve.

"Ah yes. For that little club of yours, right? Puke, was it called? Vomit?"

"It's _S.P.E.W._" she breathed, lips drawing in a thin line and glaring at him. "And it's not a _little_ club. It's a membership of those who want to protect elfish welfare." The book now lay to the side of her, completely forgotten. "Of course, they'd have to actually _have_ those rights in order for us to protect them, wouldn't they-"

"Granger," I interrupted, "Have you actually tried _asking_ the elves whether they want to be free or not? Because if you did, then you'd realize that they're _happy_ working for us."

"That's because they're brainwashed by slave-drivers like you" she spat. "Look at Dobby! He's absolutely ecstatic about being free!"

I rolled my eyes.

"There's always the freak in the bunch. He's the one out of a billion that would actually be happier getting paid for work."

"I didn't expect you to understand." She sneered, and started scribbling away on a roll of parchment.

'_What a nutcase.' _I thought. _'She's willing to fight tooth and nail against pretty much the entire Wizarding population to make sure that the rest of the elves get the same rights as one insane one. The 'freak' in the bunch. That kind of reminds me of-_

"Oh."

She looked up from her assignment and raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

The beginnings of a smirk were forming upon my face.

"Oh nothing." I said. I tried flashing her an innocent look, but my facial muscles couldn't quite pull it off to the extent I wanted. Undeterred, I went on. "It's just that I finally realized why _PUKE _is so important to you."

She shot me an absolutely livid look, but it was a mark of curiosity that she let the comment pass and waited for me to go on.

I leaned forward on the desk and clasped my hands together, arranging what I hoped was an earnest look. Yes, a glimmer of something that looked like hope flashed in her eyes, but it was gone not a second after I spoke. I told her, with a completely serious expression on my face,

"I think you have an inferiority complex."


	4. Chapter 4

"_Inferiority complex!"_ she shouted.

"Yes." Draco replied calmly. "I think that's your issue."

"_Inferiority complex!" _she shouted yet again, flabbergasted by his brand of reasoning.

He sighed, and spoke with a voice that would be used to explain to a stubborn three-year old that one plus one does, in fact, equal two.

"Yes, Granger, an _inferiority complex._ An inferiority complex, in the fields of psychology and psychoanalysis, is a feeling that one is inferior to others in some way. It is often unconscious, and is thought to drive afflicted individuals to overcompensate, resulting either in spectacular achievement or extreme antisocial-"

"I know what an inferiority complex is, Malfoy!" she snarled.

He replied sarcastically, "Really? With that astounding display of repeating 'inferiority complex' over and over, I never would have thought it!"

"Shut it, gel-head. What in Merlin's name makes you think I have an inferiority complex?"

"Simple." He answered. "Most witches or wizards, even if they _were_ muggleborns, would have realized by now that house elves are _happy_ serving us! We don't slave or imprison them brutally, like you make it sound. They have food, clothing, and work for them to do. They can't survive on their own, Granger. They have powerful magic, true, but they're at loss at how to use it for their own devices."

"Dobby can use his magic _just fine-_" Hermione started heatedly.

Draco held up his hand.

"I'm getting to that part. _Anyway_, you find this one little freak in the bunch, and you decide that every other house elf would be happier free.

It didn't occur to you that Dobby had wanted to be free from the beginning, when none of the other house elves did, did it?  
It didn't occur to you that you might have been wrong when you saw how that elf of Crouch's was distraught at being sacked? No.  
You know why you refused to consider that option? Because you are just like Dobby.  
You're both the freaks in the bunch. You think that by getting good grades and being smarter than everyone else will prove something. But deep inside, you know that it won't.  
No matter how good you are, you'll always be a mudblood. And no matter how much Dobby gets paid, or how many tea cozies he wears, he'll always be a mudblood.

You simply refused to see this side of the argument. Then you go and berate _others_ for being judgmental. How hypocritical is that?"

Hermione sat stunned for a few seconds, then exploded,  
"I'm trying to get the _same rights_ for house elves as people, you twit! Not force them out of servitude if they'd rather not! But they need to be exposed to their options before they can decide, don't you think?  
Most people are unwilling to let go of their elves, so I had to take some drastic measures! I didn't do it because of an inferiority complex! I did it because I have a heart!  
And stop blaming your insecurities on my blood! There are things we're better at than each other, and blood has _nothing_ to do with it! Your blood and mine are _equal_!" she was breathing heavily now.

"I'm not your blood _equal_!" Draco gasped. "My blood is much better than yours! You have a low, low, _low_ opinion of the pureblood wizarding race and the magical world in general if you think they're your equals!"

"Oh, this is rich, coming from Ferret-Boy, the Bouncing Wonder! You're proof that evolution can go in reverse!"

"Don't talk about evolution to me, Mudblood! If we were to kill everybody who hates you and your know-it-all attitude, it wouldn't be murder! It would be genocide! You wouldn't even give us a chance to evolve!"

"God, Malfoy, your puny little brain wouldn't evolve no matter _how_ much time I gave you! You couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel!"

"Granger, if I gave you a penny for every reasonable thought you had, I'd get change!"

"If brains were taxed, you'd get a rebate, Malfoy!" she snarled.

"What's a rebate? He asked curiously.

Hermione's laugh was slightly hysterical.

"See? You're going to go through life not knowing about anything but your sheltered little life you lead, and you know what? You're still going to hold on to those precious 'standards' of yours until you're dead, not realizing what an idiot you were!"

"I believe in respect for the dead, Mudblood. In fact, I could only respect you if you WERE dead; because that would mean you finally realize that you and your kind are dirtying up this world." He sneered.

Hermione's eyes flashed.

"So enlighten me, Malfoy. What exactly makes my blood dirty? Because I was given birth to by Muggles, and you think their blood is dirty?"

"Yes." He answered simply. "Your blood is tainted by Muggles. You're not worthy of magic."

"Magic chooses who it infests, and it chose me, so don't you dare tell me I'm unworthy. And how is my blood tainted?" she hissed. "D'you think it's made out of dirt? D'you think its brown?"

"Probably," He drawled. "Maybe nasty little spiders crawl around in it too." He smirked.

Hermione whipped out her wand and muttered under her breath. A small silver knife appeared on the table before them. He jumped back when she thrust it at him. Was she trying to murder him?

"Here." She spat. "Let's see what your blood looks like."

Draco stared, openmouthed at her.

"I'm not going to mutilate myself for a _mudblood_." He said disgustedly. Then he smirked. "Though I can understand your desire to see clean blood, which is so different from yours."

"Do you know what your blood looks like, Malfoy?" she asked him in a low voice.

"Of course: nothing like yours."

Without a word, she brought the knife down on the skin a little below her wrist.

He watched transfixed, wanting to see what came. He had never seen anyone but his own and his mother's blood.

A pale pink gash appeared. Suddenly, blood streamed out, coating her pale skin.

A quick wave of her wand and the skin re-healed, but the blood stayed on her arm and the table, where it had dripped.

She held out her knife to where he was staring icily at her arm. There was no noise in the library except for the occasional rustle of a page by Madame Pince that carried across the library.

"That's what my blood looks like. Show me that yours is different."

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a soft ringing. He felt around inside his robes and pulled out a cell phone.

Hermione's mouth dropped open.

"A … _cell phone?_" she asked hesitantly. "I didn't know you knew about cell phones! And besides, Professor Dumbledore banned students from using Muggle technology at Hogwarts!"

Draco sneered at her.

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Granger. I had this owled from the Manor yesterday. And what do I care what that old coot says? He doesn't even know I have this! Besides, Malfoys answer to no one."

With that he flipped it open.

"Hello?"

Hermione watched as his face went from smug, to shocked, then indignation, and finally, resignation.

"Understood." He voiced glumly into the phone, and then dropped into the nearest chair.

"Who was that?" she asked.

He glared at her for a few minutes, before answering, "Dumbledore. He told me not to use the cell phone anymore."

Hermione's eyes widened and she snorted softly.

"Malfoys answer to no one, huh?"

The small smile that formed on her face broke some of the tension that had built up around them.

They continued looking at each other for a few more seconds, and then Draco stood abruptly.

"Well, I have things to do, people to see, so I'll leave you to get back to writing love letters to the Weasel, shall I?" he asked crisply, then strode out of the library.

"You do that, Ferret." She called back on his way out.

**xxxxxx**

That night, Malfoy tossed and turned in his bed. No matter how much he tried, he could not get to sleep.

Yanking his hand through his hair, he sighed, frustrated, and quietly swung his legs over the side of his bed. He tapped his wand on his wrist four times and small glowing numbers appeared over his hand.

2:26 A.M.

He stole stealthily away from the Slytherin common room and ran up the stairs until he reached the 7th floor. There, at the end of the hallway, was a small, dark door with a brass doorknob.  
He twisted it open and headed straight for the lemon meringue that was sitting on the squat table, as he knew it would be.

He had discovered this room in his fourth year, and was horrified to find that the group called 'Dumbledore's Army' had been using it as their headquarters.  
Even though the room was not his, he viewed it as an invasion of his privacy and another reason to hate them all. Sighing, he put down his fork and headed over to the window sill.

He couldn't stop thinking about his day in the library.

'_That's what my blood looks like.'_ She had said. _'Show me that yours is different._"

He thought back to when he was younger, and Lucius had demanded a particularly fierce whipping because he had talked back in front of company  
His mother had snuck up to his room later that evening and wiped off the blood and applied ointment to his back. Something that Lucius would punish her for later when he found out.

Even now, Draco could see the blood on the cloth… and it was the same as hers.

Their blood was red, it was thick… and both sparkled with the magic that was infused in them.

Running his hand along the edge of a small, grubby-looking diary, he flipped it open. He saw no new entries, so, turning to the third marked off section, he picked up a quill and began to write.


End file.
